VIII

von Wilkie Collins

When I walked into the room, I found Miss Halcombe and an elderly woman sitting at the luncheon table.

The elderly woman, whom I was introduced to, turned out to be Mrs. Vesey, Miss Fairlie’s former governess. My lively companion at breakfast had described her as someone with “all the cardinal virtues, and counting for nothing.” I can only echo Miss Halcombe’s portrayal of the old lady’s character. Mrs. Vesey embodied calmness and kindness. A serene enjoyment of her quiet life radiated from her gentle, plump face, which wore a drowsy smile.

Some people rush through life, while others saunter. Mrs. Vesey, however, simply sat through life. She sat in the house, morning and night; she sat in the garden; she sat in unexpected window seats in hallways; she even sat on a camp stool when her friends tried to take her for a walk. She sat before she looked at anything, before she spoke, before she answered any question—always with the same serene smile, the same vacant yet attentive gaze, and the same comfortably snug position of her hands and arms, regardless of the domestic circumstances around her.

She was a mild, agreeable, and utterly tranquil old lady, who never suggested that she had truly been alive since the moment she was born. It seemed to me that nature, in her vast creativity, must sometimes be too flustered to distinguish between the different beings she was bringing into the world. From this perspective, I’ve always believed that while Mrs. Vesey was being born, nature was preoccupied with making cabbages, and as a result, the good lady bore the consequences of that botanical distraction.

“Now, Mrs. Vesey,” Miss Halcombe said, looking sharper and more vibrant than ever next to the placid old lady, “what would you like? A cutlet?”

Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the table, smiled gently, and replied, “Yes, dear.”

“What’s that over there, Mr. Hartright? Boiled chicken, isn’t it? I thought you preferred boiled chicken to cutlet, Mrs. Vesey?”

Mrs. Vesey moved her hands off the table and placed them in her lap, nodding thoughtfully at the boiled chicken. “Yes, dear,” she said.

“Well, which will you have today? Shall Mr. Hartright serve you some chicken, or should I give you some cutlet?”

Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back on the edge of the table, hesitated sleepily, and said, “Whichever you please, dear.”

“Oh my! This is a matter of your taste, not mine. Why don’t you have a little of both? Let’s start with the chicken, since Mr. Hartright looks eager to carve for you.”

Mrs. Vesey placed the other dimpled hand back on the table, brightened for a moment, then faded again. She bowed obediently and said, “If you please, sir.”

Truly, she was a mild, agreeable, and utterly tranquil old lady. But perhaps we’ve had enough of Mrs. Vesey for now.

Throughout this time, there were no signs of Miss Fairlie. We finished our lunch, and she still hadn’t appeared. Miss Halcombe, whose sharp eyes missed nothing, noticed the glances I cast toward the door.

“I understand, Mr. Hartright,” she said. “You’re wondering where your other pupil is. She’s been downstairs and has gotten over her headache, but she hasn’t recovered enough to join us for lunch. If you’d like, I can help you find her in the garden.”

She picked up a parasol resting on a nearby chair and led the way out through a long window at the end of the room that opened onto the lawn. It was almost unnecessary to mention that we left Mrs. Vesey still seated at the table, her dimpled hands crossed on its edge, seemingly settled in that position for the rest of the afternoon.

As we crossed the lawn, Miss Halcombe looked at me knowingly and shook her head.

“That mysterious adventure of yours,” she said, “is still shrouded in its own midnight darkness. I’ve spent all morning going through my mother’s letters, and I haven’t made any discoveries yet. But don’t lose hope, Mr. Hartright. This is a matter of curiosity, and you have a woman on your side. With those odds, success is bound to come, sooner or later. The letters aren’t all gone. I still have three packets left, and you can count on me to spend the entire evening going through them.”

Here was yet another expectation of the morning that remained unfulfilled. I found myself wondering if my introduction to Miss Fairlie would live up to the image I had been forming of her since breakfast.

“How did it go with Mr. Fairlie?” Miss Halcombe asked as we left the lawn and entered a path lined with shrubs. “Was he particularly nervous this morning? Don’t bother thinking too hard about your answer, Mr. Hartright. The fact that you need to think tells me enough. I can see it on your face—he WAS nervous. And since I’m not keen on putting you in the same state, I won’t pry any further.”

As she spoke, we veered onto a winding path that led us to a charming summer house, built like a tiny Swiss chalet. As we climbed the steps to the door, I noticed a young woman inside. She stood by a rustic table, gazing out at the view of moors and hills framed by a gap in the trees, idly flipping through the pages of a small sketchbook beside her. This was Miss Fairlie.

How do I even begin to describe her? How can I separate her from my own feelings and everything that has happened since? How can I see her again as she appeared when I first laid eyes on her—as she should appear now to those who will read about her in these pages?

The watercolor painting I made of Laura Fairlie, capturing her in the same place and pose where I first saw her, rests on my desk as I write. I look at it now, and from the dark greenish-brown background of the summer house, a light, youthful figure emerges. She wears a simple muslin dress, patterned with broad alternating stripes of delicate blue and white. A matching scarf wraps crisply around her shoulders, and a little straw hat, trimmed sparingly with ribbon, sits atop her head, casting a soft, pearly shadow over her face.

Her hair is a pale brown—not quite flaxen, yet almost as light; not golden, yet nearly as glossy—blending into the shadow of her hat in places. It is neatly parted and drawn back over her ears, with a natural ripple as it crosses her forehead. Her eyebrows are slightly darker than her hair, and her eyes are a soft, limpid turquoise blue, often celebrated by poets but rarely seen in reality.

Her eyes are lovely in both color and shape—large, tender, and quietly thoughtful—but what makes them truly beautiful is the clear truthfulness that shines from their depths, illuminating every change in expression with the light of a purer, better world. The gentle charm they cast over her entire face softens any minor imperfections, making it hard to judge the balance of her features.

It’s easy to overlook that the lower part of her face tapers too delicately toward her chin, or that her nose, while avoiding the harshness of an aquiline shape, lacks the ideal straightness. Even the sweet, sensitive curve of her lips, which tend to pull slightly upward at one corner when she smiles, might draw attention in another woman’s face. But in hers, these flaws are so intricately woven into her unique expression that it’s difficult to focus on them, especially when the life and movement of her expression depend so much on the captivating impulse of her eyes.

Does my poor attempt at capturing her likeness, my fond, patient work over many long and happy days, reveal these truths? Ah, how little of it is in the mechanical drawing, and how much exists in the way I perceive it! A lovely, delicate girl in a charming light dress, idly flipping through the pages of a sketchbook, glancing up at me with her honest, innocent blue eyes—that’s all the drawing can convey. Perhaps that’s all that even the most profound thoughts and words can express.

The woman who breathes life, light, and form into our shadowy visions of beauty fills a void in our spiritual selves that we didn’t even know existed until she arrived. At such moments, feelings that run deeper than words—deeper than thoughts—are stirred by charms beyond what our senses can grasp and what language can articulate. The mystery behind a woman’s beauty remains just out of reach of expression until it connects with the deeper mystery within our own souls. Only then does it transcend the limited realm illuminated by pencil and pen in this world.

Think of her as you once thought of the first woman who awakened feelings in you that no other could. Let her kind, candid blue eyes meet yours, just as they met mine, with that unforgettable look we both remember so vividly. Let her voice fill the air with the music you once cherished, as sweetly attuned to your ear as it is to mine. Let her footsteps, as she moves through these pages, echo the lightness of that other step to which your heart once danced in time. Embrace her as the imaginative creation of your own mind, and she will become clearer to you, just as the living woman in my thoughts has become to me.

Among the emotions that surged through me when I first saw her—those familiar feelings that many of us recognize, that spring to life in most hearts, fade in many, and are reborn in only a few—there was one that troubled and confused me. It felt strangely out of place in Miss Fairlie’s presence.

Alongside the vivid impression of her beautiful face, her sweet expression, and her charming simplicity, there was another feeling that vaguely suggested something was missing. At times, it felt like something was lacking in her; at other times, it seemed like something was missing in me, preventing me from fully understanding her. This feeling was strongest when she looked at me; in those moments, I was most aware of her harmony and charm, yet also most troubled by an incompleteness I couldn’t quite identify. Something was missing—something I couldn’t pinpoint.

This peculiar twist of thought, as I considered it then, did not help me feel at ease during my first meeting with Miss Fairlie. When she welcomed me with a few kind words, I found myself too flustered to respond properly. Noticing my hesitation and likely attributing it to a momentary shyness, Miss Halcombe took over the conversation with her usual ease.

“Look there, Mr. Hartright,” she said, pointing to the sketchbook on the table and the delicate hand still fiddling with it. “Surely you must admit that you’ve finally found your ideal pupil? The moment she hears you’re here, she grabs her precious sketchbook, confronts universal Nature head-on, and is eager to start!”

Miss Fairlie laughed, her good humor shining as brightly as the sunshine above us, illuminating her beautiful face.

“I can’t take credit where it isn’t due,” she said, her clear, honest blue eyes shifting between Miss Halcombe and me. “As much as I love drawing, I’m so aware of my own limitations that I feel more apprehensive than eager to begin. Now that I know you’re here, Mr. Hartright, I find myself reviewing my sketches like I used to go over my lessons as a little girl, worried that I wouldn’t be good enough to be heard.”

She made this confession with such charm and simplicity, and with a childlike earnestness, she pulled the sketchbook closer to her side of the table. Miss Halcombe swiftly cut through the awkwardness with her usual straightforwardness.

“Good, bad, or indifferent,” she said, “the sketches from the students have to endure the fiery trial of the master’s judgment—and that’s just how it is. What if we take them with us in the carriage, Laura, and let Mr. Hartright see them for the first time while we’re bouncing around? If we can just confuse him during the ride, switching between the real beauty of the landscape when he looks up and the not-so-great sketches when he looks down, we might force him into the last desperate refuge of giving us compliments, and we’ll slip through his professional grasp with our fragile egos intact.”

“I hope Mr. Hartright won’t pay ME any compliments,” said Miss Fairlie as we all stepped out of the summer-house.

“May I ask why you hope for that?” I inquired.

“Because I would believe everything you say to me,” she replied simply.

In those few words, she unknowingly revealed the essence of her character: a generous trust in others that stemmed innocently from her own sense of truth. I only sensed it intuitively then, but I understand it through experience now.

We just needed to rouse good Mrs. Vesey from her spot at the now-empty lunch table before we climbed into the open carriage for our promised drive. The old lady and Miss Halcombe took the back seat, while Miss Fairlie and I sat together in front, the sketchbook finally open between us, exposed to my professional gaze. Any serious critique of the drawings, even if I had been inclined to offer it, was made impossible by Miss Halcombe’s lively determination to see only the ridiculous side of the Fine Arts as practiced by herself, her sister, and women in general. I can recall the conversation much more easily than the sketches I flipped through absentmindedly. The parts of the discussion that Miss Fairlie participated in are still etched in my memory as if I had heard them just hours ago.

Yes! I must admit that on this first day, the charm of her presence distracted me from my own thoughts and position. The most trivial questions she asked about using her pencil and mixing colors, the slightest shifts in expression in her lovely eyes as she looked at me with such earnest curiosity to learn everything I could teach and to discover all I could show, captured my attention far more than the most breathtaking views we passed or the grandest shifts of light and shadow flowing over the rolling moorland and the flat beach. Isn’t it strange how little real connection the natural world around us has with our hearts and minds? We turn to Nature for comfort in our troubles and for joy, but only in books. The admiration for the beauty of the inanimate world that modern poetry so eloquently describes isn’t an instinct we’re born with, even in the best of us. As children, we don’t possess it. No uninstructed person does. Those whose lives are spent amid the ever-changing wonders of sea and land are often the least sensitive to any aspect of Nature that isn’t directly tied to the human interests of their work. Our ability to appreciate the beauty of the earth is, in truth, one of the civilized skills we learn as an Art; and even then, we rarely practice it except when our minds are most idle and unoccupied.

How much do the attractions of Nature really play into the joys or sorrows of ourselves or our friends? What role do they have in the countless little stories we share every day? Everything our minds can grasp, everything our hearts can learn, can be achieved with equal certainty, benefit, and satisfaction in the simplest as well as the most magnificent landscapes the earth can offer. There must be a reason for this lack of innate sympathy between living beings and the creation around them, a reason that might lie in the vastly different fates of humanity and the earthly realm. The grandest mountain view that the eye can take in is destined for destruction. The smallest human connection that a pure heart can feel is destined for immortality.

We had been out for nearly three hours when the carriage finally passed through the gates of Limmeridge House.

On our way back, I let the ladies decide on the first perspective they would sketch, following my instructions for the next afternoon. Once they left to get ready for dinner, I found myself alone in my small sitting room, and suddenly, my spirits plummeted. I felt uneasy and dissatisfied with myself, though I couldn't quite pinpoint why. Maybe it was the realization that I had enjoyed our drive too much as a guest and not enough as a drawing master. Or perhaps that strange feeling of something missing—either in Miss Fairlie or in myself—that had puzzled me when we first met, still lingered. Regardless, I felt a wave of relief wash over me when the dinner bell pulled me from my solitude and back into the company of the ladies.

As I entered the drawing room, I was struck by the interesting contrast in their dresses. Mrs. Vesey and Miss Halcombe were both elegantly dressed—Mrs. Vesey in a rich silver-grey and Miss Halcombe in a soft primrose-yellow that complemented her dark complexion and black hair. In stark contrast, Miss Fairlie wore a simple white muslin dress. It was impeccably clean and beautifully fitted, but it had the look of something a poor man's wife or daughter might wear. In fact, it made her appear less well-off than her own governess. Later, as I got to know Miss Fairlie better, I realized that this odd contrast stemmed from her natural sensitivity and her strong aversion to flaunting her wealth. Neither Mrs. Vesey nor Miss Halcombe could persuade her to dress in a way that would highlight her affluence over the two ladies who were less fortunate.

After dinner, we returned to the drawing room together. Although Mr. Fairlie had instructed his butler to consult me about the wine I might prefer after dinner—attempting to emulate the grand gestures of a monarch—I was determined to resist the temptation of sitting alone among bottles of my own choosing. Instead, I politely asked the ladies if I could leave the table with them, following the more civilized custom I had grown accustomed to during my stay at Limmeridge House.

The drawing room we entered for the evening was on the ground floor and mirrored the size and shape of the breakfast room. Large glass doors at one end opened onto a terrace, beautifully adorned with a profusion of flowers. As we stepped inside, the soft twilight began to blend the leaves and blossoms into a harmonious palette, and the sweet evening scent of the flowers welcomed us through the open doors. Good Mrs. Vesey, always the first to settle in, claimed an armchair in a corner and soon dozed off comfortably. I asked Miss Fairlie to play the piano, and as I took a seat nearby, I noticed Miss Halcombe retreating to a side window to sift through her mother’s letters in the last gentle rays of evening light.

How vividly that serene scene in the drawing room comes back to me as I write! From my seat, I could see Miss Halcombe’s graceful figure, half illuminated and half cloaked in shadow, leaning intently over the letters in her lap. Closer to me, Miss Fairlie’s delicate profile was softly outlined against the dimming background of the room’s inner wall. Outside, on the terrace, the flowers, long grasses, and creeping vines swayed gently in the evening breeze, their rustling sound lost to us. The sky was clear, and the first hints of moonlight began to shimmer in the eastern sky. The sense of peace and seclusion wrapped around us, soothing all thoughts and feelings into a blissful, otherworldly calm. As the music of Mozart floated from the piano, the tranquil atmosphere deepened, creating an unforgettable evening filled with sights and sounds that would linger in my memory forever.

We all sat quietly in our chosen spots—Mrs. Vesey still asleep, Miss Fairlie still playing, and Miss Halcombe still reading—until the light began to fade. By then, the moon had made its way to the terrace, casting soft, mysterious beams across the lower end of the room. The transition from twilight to moonlight was so enchanting that we unanimously decided to turn off the lamps when the servant brought them in, leaving the large room illuminated only by the flicker of two candles at the piano.

The music continued for another half hour. Eventually, the beauty of the moonlit terrace lured Miss Fairlie outside, and I followed her. After lighting the candles at the piano, Miss Halcombe had shifted her position to continue examining the letters with their glow. We left her, absorbed in her reading on a low chair beside the instrument, seemingly unaware of our departure.

We had only been on the terrace for about five minutes, I would guess, and Miss Fairlie was just tying her white handkerchief over her head to shield herself from the night air when I heard Miss Halcombe’s voice—low, urgent, and different from her usual lively tone—call my name.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “can you come here for a moment? I need to talk to you.”

I quickly stepped back into the room. The piano was positioned about halfway down the inner wall. On the side farthest from the terrace, Miss Halcombe sat with letters scattered across her lap, holding one close to the candlelight. I settled onto a low ottoman near the glass doors, close enough to see Miss Fairlie clearly as she walked back and forth on the terrace, bathed in moonlight.

“I want you to listen while I read the last part of this letter,” Miss Halcombe said. “Tell me if you think it sheds any light on your strange encounter on the road to London. The letter is from my mother to her second husband, Mr. Fairlie, and it dates back about eleven or twelve years. At that time, Mr. and Mrs. Fairlie, along with my half-sister Laura, had been living in this house for years while I was away in Paris finishing my education.”

She spoke earnestly, and I sensed a hint of unease in her tone. Just as she lifted the letter to the candlelight to begin reading, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace, glanced in for a moment, and, seeing us engaged, continued on her way.

Miss Halcombe began to read:

“‘You must be tired of hearing about my schools and my students. Please blame the dull routine of life at Limmeridge, not me. This time, however, I have something truly interesting to share about a new student.

“‘You know old Mrs. Kempe from the village shop? Well, after years of illness, the doctor has finally given up on her, and she is slowly dying. Her only living relative, a sister, arrived last week to care for her. This sister comes all the way from Hampshire—her name is Mrs. Catherick. Four days ago, Mrs. Catherick came here to see me and brought her only child, a sweet little girl about a year older than our darling Laura——’”

As the last words left her lips, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace once more, softly singing one of the melodies she had played earlier in the evening. Miss Halcombe waited until she was out of sight again before continuing with the letter.

“Mrs. Catherick is a decent, well-mannered, respectable woman. She’s middle-aged and still holds onto the remnants of having been, at one time, moderately attractive. Yet, there’s something about her demeanor and appearance that I just can’t quite figure out. She’s so reserved about herself that it borders on secrecy, and there’s a look on her face—I can’t quite put it into words—that suggests she has something weighing on her mind. She’s like a walking mystery.

Her reason for coming to Limmeridge House was straightforward enough. When she left Hampshire to care for her sister, Mrs. Kempe, during her final illness, she had to bring her daughter along since there was no one at home to look after the little girl. Mrs. Kempe could pass away in a week or linger for months, and Mrs. Catherick’s purpose was to ask me if her daughter, Anne, could attend my school, with the understanding that she would leave to go home with her mother after Mrs. Kempe’s death. I agreed right away, and when Laura and I went out for our walk, we took the eleven-year-old girl to the school that very day.

Once again, Miss Fairlie’s figure glided past us in the moonlight, her soft, white muslin dress bright against the dark. Her face was beautifully framed by the white handkerchief tied under her chin. Miss Halcombe waited until Miss Fairlie was out of sight before continuing.

“I’ve taken quite a liking to my new student, Philip, for a reason I plan to keep to myself until the right moment. Mrs. Catherick told me very little about her daughter, just as she revealed little about herself. So, I was left to discover for myself—on the first day of lessons—that the poor little girl’s intellect isn’t quite as developed as it should be for her age. Recognizing this, I brought her up to the house the next day and arranged for the doctor to come and observe her, to ask her questions and share his thoughts. He believes she will eventually grow out of it, but he emphasized that her careful upbringing at school is crucial right now. Her unusual slowness in grasping ideas suggests she might hold onto them more firmly once they’re in her mind.

Now, my dear, don’t assume, in your casual way, that I’ve taken a liking to an idiot. This sweet little Anne Catherick is a kind, affectionate girl who says the most charming things in the most unexpected, almost startled way. Although she’s dressed neatly, her clothes lack a sense of style in color and pattern. So, I arranged yesterday for some of our darling Laura’s old white dresses and hats to be altered for Anne, explaining to her that little girls with her complexion look much better in white than in anything else. She hesitated for a moment, looking puzzled, then her cheeks flushed, and she seemed to understand. Suddenly, she clasped my hand, kissed it, and said—oh, so earnestly—‘I will always wear white as long as I live. It will help me remember you, ma’am, and think of pleasing you even when I’m away and can’t see you anymore.’ This is just one example of the delightful things she says. Poor little soul! I’ll make sure she has a collection of white dresses, with deep tucks to let them out as she grows.”

Miss Halcombe paused, looking at me across the piano.

“Did the forlorn woman you met on the road seem young?” she asked. “Young enough to be in her early twenties?”

“Yes, Miss Halcombe, she seemed that young.”

“And she was dressed strangely, from head to toe, all in white?”

“All in white.”

As I spoke, Miss Fairlie appeared on the terrace for the third time. Instead of continuing her walk, she stopped, her back to us, leaning against the balustrade and gazing down into the garden. My eyes were drawn to the white shimmer of her muslin gown and headpiece in the moonlight, and an indescribable sensation began to wash over me—a feeling that quickened my pulse and stirred something in my heart.

“All in white?” Miss Halcombe repeated. “The most important lines in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those at the end, which I’ll read to you shortly. But I can’t help but linger on the coincidence of the woman you met wearing white and the white dresses that elicited that strange response from my mother’s little student. The doctor might have been mistaken in assessing the child’s intellectual challenges and predicting that she would ‘grow out of them.’ She may never grow out of them, and the old, grateful sentiment about dressing in white, which was so meaningful to the girl, may still hold significance for the woman.”

I managed to say a few words in response—I barely remember what they were. My focus was entirely on the white shimmer of Miss Fairlie’s muslin dress.

“Listen to the last lines of the letter,” Miss Halcombe said. “I think they’ll surprise you.”

As she lifted the letter to the candlelight, Miss Fairlie turned away from the balustrade. She glanced uncertainly up and down the terrace, took a step toward the glass doors, then paused, facing us.

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe read the last lines she had mentioned:

“‘And now, my love, since I’ve reached the end of my paper, let me reveal the true reason, the surprising reason, for my affection for little Anne Catherick. My dear Philip, although she isn’t nearly as pretty, she is, by one of those strange quirks of accidental resemblance we sometimes encounter, the living image of me—in her hair, her complexion, the color of her eyes, and the shape of her face——’”

I sprang up from the ottoman before Miss Halcombe could finish. A chill ran through me, reminiscent of the moment when someone had touched my shoulder on that lonely road.

There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure bathed in moonlight. In her posture, the tilt of her head, her complexion, and the shape of her face, she was the living image, at that distance and under those circumstances, of the woman in white! The doubt that had plagued me for hours transformed into certainty in an instant. That “something missing” was my own recognition of the unsettling resemblance between the fugitive from the asylum and my pupil at Limmeridge House.

“You see it!” Miss Halcombe exclaimed. She let the useless letter fall, her eyes sparkling as they met mine. “You see it now, just as my mother did eleven years ago!”

“I see it—more reluctantly than I can express. To connect that lost, friendless woman, even by mere resemblance, with Miss Fairlie feels like casting a shadow over the future of the bright young woman standing before us. I want to shake off this impression as quickly as I can. Please, call her in from the dreary moonlight—just call her in!”

“Mr. Hartright, you’re surprising me. Whatever women may be, I thought men in the nineteenth century had risen above superstition.”

“Please, just call her in!”

“Shh, shh! She’s coming in on her own. Don’t say anything in front of her. Let this discovery of the resemblance remain a secret between us. Come in, Laura, come in, and wake Mrs. Vesey with the piano. Mr. Hartright is asking for more music, and this time, he wants something light and lively.”